I Thought He Was Drunk
by Greenlips24
Summary: d'Artagnan is in Athos's room, ranting at him. Athos cannot respond. Not only that, but his beloved chain and locket have gone.


"I Thought He Was Drunk!"

D'Artagnan is in Athos's room, ranting at him about him being drunk. Athos watches, but cannot reply. Not only that, but his beloved locket and chain have gone. 8,882 words

CHAPTER ONE

 **The Present:**

Athos lay on his right side on his bed, his face half buried in the pillow, left hand curled under his chin. He still wore the clothes from last night, including his boots and black gloves. His cream muslin shirt now dishevelled, his leather doublet thrown across the foot of his bed. The room was a mess, chairs upturned, bottles strewn across the table and a large red stain on the floor at the side of the bed. This was the scene that greeted d'Artagnan when he breezed in just after dawn, as the light was beginning to find its way through the wooden shutters.

As his door banged open, Athos managed to open his left eye and, on seeing his younger brother, he let out an audible sigh. d'Artagnan's initial enthusiasm quickly waned as he took in his surroundings, and the prone man on the bed. He pressed his lips together and bent to right a nearby chair. Before he could help himself, he started his rant, frustrated that, despite his promise last night, Athos had obviously continued to drink himself into oblivion. His mentor had actually placed his hand over his heart as he gave d'Artagnan his word. He had known Athos was in a vulnerable state; he had overheard his conversation with Constance discussing Milady's new position at court as the King's mistress. d'Artagnan had felt guilty, wondering how to make amends,

" _Did you hear all that, he had asked him afterwards, as he moved away from Constance, seeing Athos standing behind the pillar._

" _Yes"_

" _What do you want to do?"_

" _Drink"_

" _Alone?..."_

 _After a pause: "No."_

D'Artagnan had been hopeful, therefore, that at least for the evening, Athos could maintain control.

So now, surveying the pre-dawn evidence around him, he continued his rant:

" _You gave your word... hand on heart! If you wanted to carry on drinking, you should have said so...!"_

Athos watched him as he stomped around the room, allowing himself a confused frown at his brother, which only made d'Artagnan more frustrated. Just then, Aramis came to the open doorway so see what was taking so long. d'Artagnan turned, and indicating Athos, said,

"Well, at least he managed to find his bed", and pointing to the red stain on the floor, "looks like he spilled the last of his wine!"

Seeing Athos, Aramis's shoulders slumped. Stepping into the room, he suddenly checked himself. Rushing forward, he threw himself toward the bed, shouting,

"THAT'S NOT WINE!"

Aramis skidded to a halt beside the bed, looking down as his boots, not comprehending how he could be standing in a pool of blood.

With a sob in his throat, Aramis leant down toward Athos and put his hand gently on the side of his face. Athos at last moved, uncurling his hand and taking hold of Aramis's wrist. "Thank you," he murmured, before falling deeply unconscious.

Awful realisation was dawning on d'Artagnan now, as he stood rooted to the spot, both hands clasped over his mouth, his eyes shining with unshed tears. Before his legs gave way, and he fell on his knees, he looked beseechingly at Aramis and whispered hoarsely,

"I thought he was drunk ..."

CHAPTER TWO

"Porthos!" shouted Aramis ..."Up here! Please...!"

Almost immediately, he was there, his large frame filling the doorway, taking in the scene but not understanding.

"What the 'ell?!" he growled, as he moved quickly to Aramis's side.

"We have to get these sheets from under him," Aramis said, not quite believing the horror they were all in. This couldn't be happening.

"So much blood..." he groaned.

d'Artagnan remained where he was, in total shock, trying desperately to breathe.

"I thought he was drunk..." he kept saying, over and over.

Porthos had to ignore him, for now. Crouching beside Aramis, he gently put one hand under Athos' neck, and the other under his shoulders and eased him into a sitting position, holding him close to his chest, aware of his head falling back and his arms hanging limp at his sides, his shirt draped around him. Aramis quickly pulled the bloodied sheets away from under him and threw them onto the pool of blood on the floor, more to rid them of that awful sight than anything else. The pillow was also sodden with Athos' blood. Once raised, Aramis could see the side of his face he had been laying on was covered in blood, seeping from a cut on his scalp. To his horror, there was also a vicious wound in his abdomen.

"Athos," he whispered, "Mon Frere, what on earth has happened here..."

 **The Previous Night** :

 _In The Wren_

They sat in at their usual table in the corner of the Inn. The room was full, noisy. As the evening wore on, Athos was allowing his misanthropic outlook to prevail. He nursed his drinks and stared into his cup, not involving himself in their banter, oblivious to his surroundings. His hand gripped the base of the bottle, as if defying anyone to even attempt to take it from his grasp.

"It's a fine line between willing recluse and maudlin' hermit," said Porthos under his breath to Aramis.

It _was_ only his second bottle of the night though, d'Artagnan noted. Even so, there was a nagging at the back of the young man's mind, one that his Gascon temperament would not let go. He therefore took his courage in his hands, and leant forward to lightly touch his mentor's gloved hand. Athos, at first irritated by the intrusion, flicked his gaze up to meet d'Artagnan, his eyebrow raised in silent question, requiring a reason for the touch. d'Artagnan drew a breath and said, in a low voice, so not to be overheard,

"Please Athos, don't drink anymore tonight..."

He did not wish to see his mentor spiral into an abyss of his making tonight. Behind the plea, his guilt at the overheard conversation between himself and Constance earlier, both incredulous that Milady was now the King's mistress.

In trepidation, fearing the reaction, d'Artagnan had kept his hand in place waiting for a response. And then, Athos did something that made D'Artagnan's heart soar. He placed his hand on his heart and said quietly, "I swear...you have my word", releasing his hold on the bottle and favouring the young man with the briefest of smiles.

He would not drink tonight. He needed time to process what he now knew to be true. That his wife was the King's mistress; that it was inevitable he would see her every time he was on duty at the Palace. But he would not drink any more tonight, so he could make D'Artagnan that promise. He could not guarantee the same promise on another night.

 **Later that same night** _ **:**_

Athos walked into his room, and shrugged his leather doublet off, throwing it at the foot of his bed. He undid his sword belt and placed it on the table. He paced around his room for a while, ordering his thoughts, but ignored the bottle he had stashed away earlier. He was just about to sit down to remove his boots when two men crashed through his door, their faces masked.

"What do you want?" he asked, although fully aware of their intentions. Also acutely aware he was unarmed. He never stood a chance. He fought fiercely, but without a weapon, he had no time to deflect the knife that was thrown at him. Without the protection of his leather doublet, the knife hit him with surprising force, but strangely no pain. That will come later, he thought absently. His body started to double up against his will though, and as he bent, one of his attackers walked swiftly forward and taking hold of the blade, twisted it sharply.

The scream Athos heard was his own, cut short only by a sharp blow to his head that sent him backwards onto his bed. His last thought before trying to draw himself into a foetal position was that someone was ripping the chain from around his throat.

CHAPTER THREE

 **The Present**

Porthos charged into the street and commandeered the first cart he saw, the trader knowing better than resist. He went back upstairs and took Athos gently in his arms and carried him out of the destruction of his room, placing him in the cart for the short journey back to the Garrison. Back upstairs, Aramis took hold of d'Artagnan's shoulders and physically dragged him off his knees and out the door. He then jumped in beside Athos, casting a look at his boots, covered in his brother's blood. Porthos hauled d'Artagnan into the driving seat next to him and they set off as fast as they dare.

Once in the Infirmary, Aramis was about to get his first good look at Athos's wounds.

The head wound was from a blow that caused not only a bruise but a deep cut, so this would have to be cleaned and sewn. Aramis was not too worried about this, as he knew scalp wounds bled copiously and often looked worse than they were, although there was probably concussion. There didn't seem to be any damage to his eye, but that would have to be cleaned of the blood which had congealed there before he could be certain.

After cutting the shirt from him, the wound to his abdomen was an entirely different matter. It looked as if Athos had been stabbed with a small knife, and he could see that it had been twisted to cause maximum damage. On further examination, it appeared that the blade must have broken as the tip was still embedded deep in the wound, along with fragments of his shirt. Aramis scrubbed his hands over his face. It must have been excruciating for Athos. And terrifying.

He washed his hands and prepared for a long night of surgery. Luckily, his patient was still deeply unconscious and would hopefully be unaware of his ordeal.

Working alone, with no time to send for a physician, it took three attempts to locate the tip of the blade. The knife had sliced into a rib, and he couldn't tell if any major organs had been damaged. He was fearful of examining the wound too deeply, as blood loss had already been excessive. There was certainly muscle and tissue damage and he spent a long hour sluicing out the cavity with cheap alcohol and drawing ragged edges together. Athos would be extremely lucky if he avoided infection, and Aramis silently prayed he would.

When he had finished, he took a bowl of warm water and cloth and gently washed his brother's torso and arms, put a clean muslin shirt on him as best he could, and drew a sheet over him. Drying his hands, he looked down and whispered,

"I'm done; it's up to you now my friend. Please, live."

He stepped outside into the bright summer sun, although he did not feel its warmth. Outside the Garrison walls, all the chaotic noise that was seventeenth century Paris assaulted his ears. He found it overwhelming . He needed to find Porthos and d'Artagnan. With his almost uncanny sixth sense, Treville appeared on his balcony, waiting for his report. Porthos and d'Artagnan were behind him, Porthos wearing a line in the wood treads with his pacing. Putting his hat firmly on his head, Aramis moved toward them. He was so tired he could hardly put one boot in front of the other. He had no idea when he would next sleep. He would get this over with quickly, and return to Athos' side.

The Infirmary was a bleak place at the best of times. The room they moved into was, thankfully, the largest one in the block. They had procured a table and chairs which were pushed into the corner, and an extra bed just inside the door, for those on inevitable nightly vigil. The bed that Athos occupied was in the other corner. A small fire offered some warmth but no comfort. Aramis had thrown open the window, but had left the shutters closed. They all knew they would occupy this room for the unforeseeable future. They would try and make it as habitable as they could. d'Artagnan would not leave Athos' side. He was haunted by his behaviour on that morning. Porthos tried to reason with him, but he just shook his head,

"I was walking around his room, ranting at him while he was dying!" he shouted. "How long must he have waited like that for us to find him? Then to wait while I was putting his room straight! He had lost so much blood he couldn't communicate. He was laying there watching his own blood pooling on the floor. Watching me! I let him down, I let him down..."

Aramis stood up suddenly and walked across the floor, gathering d'Artagnan in his arms and holding him while he sobbed.

"We all did, Mon Ami, Aramis said quietly.

oOo

"Should he not be awake by now?" whispered D'Artagnan, sometime later.

"I would have thought so", replied Aramis, wearily throwing himself into a nearby chair.

"'ow long has it been"? said Porthos. "I'm losin' track of time.

"Three, no ... four days now" said Aramis.

They were all so tired.

And then, a groan, and ...

"What do you want?"

They all heard it; they were sitting in the corner of the room, exhausted. It seemed an age since they had carried him in. He had been quiet throughout the night, his breathing shallow. Now, as light began to creep through the wooden shutters, they heard his quiet challenge.

"What do you want?!" he said again, softly, in that wonderful melodious voice that they had missed so much, had so longed to hear.

They all stood up, as one, caught unawares by the sound of his voice, and confused by his words.

Aramis was the first to move, quickly making his way over to Athos, leaning over the semi-conscious man, whose eyes were now beginning to open.

But these eyes were not the cool green eyes he knew so well. These were feverish, unfocussed eyes, not engaging with his own, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.

"Athos? Look at me, Brother."

Athos, louder this time: "WHAT DO YOU WANT!" Angry, at someone unseen – and then,

"My sword! Where is my sword!" panicking.

He started thrashing.

They realised then that he was reliving his attack.

"Oh no, please don't, Mon Ami. Please DO NOT move, you have to lie still!" cried Aramis.

Aramis cast a look of panic at Porthos and d'Artagnan. They both seemed frozen to the spot, so Aramis leapt onto the bed, over Athos's body, hands on his brother's shoulders to still him, legs either side of his hips for balance.

"Shhhhhh...Shhhhhh," he whispered urgently, putting his fingers gently against the pale dry lips.

Their faces were now inches apart, as Aramis tried to make Athos open his eyes and focus on him.

Athos's gaze raked across the face poised above him, not comprehending, just registering panic as he threw his arm over his head, his other arm clutching at his throat. Delirious, he turned his face, to bury it in the crook of his elbow in obvious pain and distress.

"Athos! It's me, Aramis! I'm here. We're all here! Please, look at me!"

Athos's eyes again wildly raked across the face above him until ...There! a glimmer of recognition!

Their eyes met for seconds.. minutes.. a lifetime.

Time suspended. Athos, gasping,

"Aramis..." It wasn't a question; Athos knew he was there.

"Yes! Yes, Brother I am here."

Athos peered up at him.

Then slowly, he reached up his trembling hand and, so gently, brushed his fingers against Aramis's cheek.

Aramis let out a surprised half laugh, half cry, looking across then at his two brothers, his eyes shining. Moments later, Athos's hand started to fall. Aramis took it in his own, kissed it, and gently, slowly, lowered it to his friend's chest.

d'Artagnan let out a breath he didn't realise he had been holding. Porthos was next to him, his hand on his shoulder. D'Artagnan reached up and took hold of it.

Just before Athos slipped back into darkness, he murmured,

"My sword?"

This time it was a question.

"Still here, Brother, where you put it," replied Aramis.

"They took my locket" whispered Athos, his green eyes so haunted and sad.

"Is it not time to let it go Athos?" Aramis whispered. He had often seen his friend in the depths of despair, running the chain through his fingers.

The sad look that Athos gave in reply spoke volumes.

"No, it's not, is it" he sighed, stroking his thumb over Athos's fingers. His heart broke when he heard a muffled sob from his injured brother. He bent and placed a kiss in his hair. Exhausted, he started to sway. Porthos snapped into action and took him by the shoulders, pulling him off the bed and into a standing position, where he kept him in a tight embrace.

In that moment, d'Artagnan made Athos a silent promise. He would find out who had done this, and then he would get the locket back.

CHAPTER FOUR

"What's inside it?" asked Porthos, when they were back outside.

"I think it's a flower," Aramis said, drumming nervous fingers on the table.

"Why does he wear it anyway?" asked d'Artagnan.

"I don't think he knows himself."

Later, when Athos woke very briefly, d'Artagnan asked him.

"What's the flower?"

"A Forget-me-Not", replied Athos, drowsily.

"It was a wedding present", he volunteered. "To my wife. I had it specially made. She never took it off". Only when they put a rope around her neck, he thought to himself.

d'Artagnan's eyebrows went up –

"It's in memory of her? – she tried to murder you! You wear that so you don't forget her?!"

"How could I forget her?" said Athos quietly. "She is always there. When I turn a corner, I think I see her. I feel her presence. I gave her this flower when we first met. She asked that nothing should come between us. I promised her. We loved each other". He looked away,

"It's a memory of happier times" he continued. Those times ground me."

That was it. As simple as that, thought d'Artagnan.

Exhausted, Athos closed his eyes then, defying any further questions.

The next time he woke, something had changed. D'Artagnan felt him stir and looked up. Athos was staring at him quizzically.

"You thought I was drunk," he said simply.

"When will my word be good enough for you? With my hand on my heart, I swore on my honour I would drink no more that night. If my word is not good enough, I have nothing."

d'Artagnan felt his blood run cold. He stood and took a step back.

"Athos, please..." he whispered.

But he was not listening. He had turned his head away.

Again, he was lost to them.

Time seemed to stand still. They were lost in a blur of duty and caring for their injured brother. Aramis seemed tireless and he prepared herbs and potions, poring over his few medical books in order to satisfy himself that he was doing all he could.

Finally, one morning, exhausted and fearful for his brother's life, he took refuge in the small cemetery at the rear of the Garrison. It was the final resting place of fallen brothers-in-arms, laying shoulder to shoulder, each grave marked by a sword thrust into the ground. Sometimes, even with the slightest breeze, the swords would sway gently, as though these fallen brothers were reaching out to those who lived.

Sitting on a bench, in the sunshine, it was peaceful. Other times, he thought, it was the most desolate of places. He leaned forward and put his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes. Feeling a movement beside him he looked up, and saw his Captain, Treville. They sat in silence for a while until Treville leaned forward to mirror his own position.

Aramis knew instinctively what Treville was thinking, and he really didn't want to go there, not now, now today.

"Aramis..." he said, steel in his voice. "If the unthinkable happens..."

Aramis shifted uncomfortably, picking up his hat back and making a move to stand. Treville laid a hand on his arm.

"If the unthinkable happens," he continued, "we need to decide where he will rest. He has an ancestral home..."

"No! Not Pinon."

Not in that cold armoury, untouched by the fire, but no less chilling. He had seen that tomb, had seen the family name "Athos", and had known what lay beneath.

"That place means nothing to him now, "he hissed. Then, in realisation, sighing, "There is no-one who can decide where he should lie," Aramis whispered.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled.

"I can decide," said Treville quietly.

They sat, neither one wanting to break the silence. Aramis cast sad eyes at the array of weathered swords stretching before him. He stood suddenly, looking down at Treville.

"Athos will wear his sword again, it will not become his headstone," he said defiantly. "There is no sword blade long enough to become his epitaph."

"He will ride his horse, and he will drink his wine. And one day, he will laugh with us."

He jammed his hat on his head and walked away, leaving Treville staring ahead of him.

CHAPTER FIVE

Milady walked up the Palace staircase, her eyes on the Red Guard at the top. One of the two she had hired for her mission. He looked around and stepped back into the alcove behind him, reaching into his doublet beneath his red cape as he did so. She drew up close to him and held her hand out, not breaking eye contact. No words were spoken. He dropped the chain and locket into her outstretched hand. She turned it over, before looking up sharply at him.

"It's broken!" she hissed.

"He didn't want to give it up," was the gruff reply. "We had to persuade him."

She tilted her head, and then drew out the rest of the promised money, payable on completion. Taking it, he stepped around her and hurried off. She went in the opposite direction, almost immediately crossing paths with Rochefort. He barred her way, locking eyes with her.

"What's this?" he drawled.

God, the man made her skin crawl.

She unfolded her fingers to reveal the chain and locket, somewhat dull in her palm.

"He was returning this to me," she said. "I must have dropped it."

His eyes went from her hand, back to her face. She held his gaze defiantly.

He reached out and took the chain from her hand.

"It's broken," he observed. "You had better get it fixed."

"Already in hand," she smiled, moving away.

She could still feel his eyes on her back as she continued on her way. The Guard had gone. Rochefort had command of over five hundred Red Guards, she thought. He wouldn't know this individual. She doubted he would follow their conversation up. She would be safe.

Why, she thought, do the simplest of her missions always lead to unforeseen complications?!

oOo

Back in the Garrison yard, the three sat at their table, trying to eat something. Aramis toyed with his food. Something was bothering him.

"Someone took his chain, but not his sword – nor anything else..." he ventured. "That chain is something to do with his wife. You don't think ..."

"What, Milady?" said Porthos.

"Why would she?" mused d'Artagnan.

"Why would she do anythin" growled Porthos.

"She wouldn't admit it to us. Even if it was her, she wouldn't return it," said Aramis.

"There must be a way" said d'Artagnan, looking at each of them.

oOo

Athos had had a bad night. He had turned in his sleep and now lay on his right side, his face buried in the pillow, making vision only possible through his left eye. The pain in his stomach radiated red hot as he breathed. His head pounded with each heartbeat. It made returning to full consciousness difficult, and he had been trying to do that for several hours.

He was turned to the wall, so he could not focus on much. He made no sound, his mind trying to divorce itself from the memory of a similar experience that he couldn't quite get a grasp on. d'Artagnan had been there though. He was so glad to see him; he had waited so long for someone to come, watching that red pool spread out on the floor. What was that? But why didn't d'Artagnan help? Why was he shouting? Athos remembered then that he couldn't alert him. He couldn't speak, he was so weak, so tired. He'd just wanted to sleep.

"Welcome back Mon Ami!" he heard the familiar voice of Aramis.

Relief spread through him. He was not alone. The fog that was his mind was slowly clearing, but with it brought back visions again of his younger brother d'Artagnan glaring at him and slamming his furniture back in place. He was slowly piecing it together.

He heard voices in the room behind him, recognising his brothers. Relief flooded through him. These were new recollections then. It was daylight now. Where had the night gone? How many days had past? He felt disorientated. He was in pain. He was gradually able to tune into their voices. What he heard left him heartbroken:

"Well, you lose Aramis, you owe me, he _did_ go straight home after all." Porthos.

"Just like he promised. He swore he would", said D'Artagnan sadly.

"Did he?" said Aramis. "When?"

"After you went out. You didn't hear him. He put his hand on his heart and swore."

"Why did we bet on him then!" said Porthos.

Athos closed his eyes, not wanting to hear more. He pushed himself off the wall, turning onto his back.

"AM I A HOPELESS CASE TO BE BET UPON, TO AMUSE YOU!" he shouted.

Aramis crossed the room quickly to settle him, but he shook his hand away. And then, without warning, he roared, "LEAVE ME!"

After that, he seemed to withdraw. He complied with all Aramis' ministrations, but the rest of the time he didn't move, didn't make eye contact, and didn't speak. Occasionally, he threw his arm across his eyes as if to blot his brothers out, his hand unconsciously straying to his throat where the locket should have been.

Athos was a man of very few words. He could convey a meaning from a gaze, a glare, a tilt of his head, a raised eyebrow. He smiled, but did not laugh. He could simply square his shoulders to demonstrate his authority. He was supremely confident in his uniform, his leadership now beyond question. But out of uniform, he was quiet, even shy. They had never seen him with a woman; though they had seen plenty look at him. Whether he saw _them,_ they were not sure. He seemed oblivious.

When his walls went up, they were ten feet tall, and equally as thick. Truly impenetrable, until he was ready to crack open a door and let them in. Then they were welcome, as long as they were quiet, and did not question him. Before they knew it, their Brotherhood was back, intact and strong. Until the next time.

d'Artagnan stayed in the shadows of the room and watched him fearfully. Would he ever be their Athos again? What could he do...what could he do to help. Porthos looked at him, knowing what he was thinking.

"He's sad. We didn't trust 'im."

"No, we didn't," said d'Artagnan quietly.

They needed to put things right. Regain his trust, and rebuild their Brotherhood. It was all they could do.

Milady was the key, they were certain, but how to get to her?

CHAPTER SIX

It was Treville, they realised, who could get to Milady, now comfortably ensconced in the Palace. Perhaps he would have the gravitas to convince her to put aside her desire for revenge, at least in the short term. And in return, he would hold her secret. The King would not hear of her past from him, or his Musketeers. It seemed such a small thing on which everything hinged – the return of a locket. But that small item was the catalyst for Athos.

Of course, he knew nothing of what they were planning, too lost in his anger toward the world, but also toward them. Anger that was truly all-encompassing. His words cut them to the quick, his gaze was unbearable. It was not just the locket, they all knew – it was much, much more. They had cut him more deeply than any knife would. They had twisted the blade more than any attacker could.

oOo

In the Garrison stables, d'Artagnan was fiercely brushing the large black stallion in the end stall. He jumped when Porthos appeared in the doorway.

"Always a farm boy. Athos will be glad you're looking after Roger."

"I don't know what to do, he won't forgive me." Eyes shining.

Porthos walked toward him.

"He's sick, d'Artagnan, "he's out of it, doesn't know what he's sayin'."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "The way he looks at me, the things he says ...I think he does. I deserve it." He looked thoroughly miserable. Porthos sighed and gently took the brushes from his brother's hand.

"Have you ever thought," he said, "that maybe he's actin' like that because he's ashamed, hmmm?"

"What do you mean?"

Porthos studied him.

"He knows you look up to him. And he knows that _you_ know we go out of our way to get 'im home safe, when he's had one too many. Seems to me, we 'ave to do that a lot."

d'Artagnan gave him a puzzled look.

"There's no smoke without fire," Porthos said, passing the brush back to him.

"Go and see Constance," the big man said, putting his arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders.

"She doesn't want to see me."

"Go."

So he did. Constance found him standing in his old room when she came home. She gave a small cry of surprise that made him turn. He looked at her, eyes shining, bereft. Like a small child, she thought.

"What? ...What is it?" she whispered. "Is it Athos?" News had spread fast.

He just nodded and they stepped toward each other, before rushing into each other's arms. She held him tightly as his shoulders began to heave. Her hand went into his hair and she whispered, "Shhhhhh...shhhhhh"

Later, she held his face in her hands.

"Stay strong for him," she said, and kissed him goodbye.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Milady", he said, making her spin around, her gold dress swirling around her.

"Treville," her lips pressed together, in that way she had of processing whatever was in front of her.

This was the woman who had dedicated her recent life to extracting her revenge on his best soldier, he thought. The woman who had sent someone to attack him just for the sake of a piece of jewellery. He could hardly bear to look at her. She had no such problem.

"Well? she sighed, wanting to be on her way.

"Athos is in the Infirmary. d'Artagnan found him near death in his room."

If she was shocked, it was the briefest flash in her eyes.

"And how is that my concern?" she purred.

They were right, sadly, he thought. It was her doing, he was sure of it.

"Whether you are concerned or not, it does not matter," Treville said, through gritted teeth.

"We know you have his locket," he bluffed.

"We want to return it to him, that is all."

Her hand fluttered to her throat to touch the ribbon she wore around the scars left by the hangman's rope. She took a step back and leaned against the window ledge behind her. He wondered absently if she felt the need of support. But she was no fool. She knew it was no use denying it. These men were nothing if not tenacious.

"Why should I return it?" she finally said.

There it was, he thought, feeling the relief of her confession.

"Because you value your new life at Court. The King does not know your past. It would be a simple matter to not only make him aware, but give him ample evidence of your crimes. Even though you were Richelieu's creature," he continued, "you have done plenty since he died to further your ambitions. The King will see how he is being used."

A shadow passed over her face, but was gone as soon as it had appeared. Her eyes flickered around her, taking in her immediate opulent surroundings. She knew her existence at Court was fragile, her work to cement her position not yet complete. For the moment, she must preserve her new life. She pushed herself casually off the window ledge, straightened her gown, and walked slowly around him, swaying her hips. He remained looking straight ahead, seemingly immune to her body language.

Finally, "Alright," she whispered, her eyes meeting his. "How will this play out?"

"Tonight, in the alley behind The Wren. I will send Aramis and D'Artagnan to collect the locket."

" _Two_ Musketeers," she smiled. "I'm _honoured_!"

"Don't be," he snarled, her use of the word angered him. "8 o'clock."

She walked around him slowly one more time, her lips pressed into a mocking smile. Then, she threw back her head, picked up the front of her gown, turned on her heel and swept away.

Treville shook himself inwardly and headed back toward the stairs. He needed to get out.

Neither Milady nor Treville were aware they were being observed as they went their separate ways. Another was quietly watching them, filing it away for future use.

"Who _are_ you?" he whispered to himself as he leaned forward and followed her exit along the corridor. He had been curious since her first appearance at Court. She could not have heard him, but she sensed something and stopped, turning slowly around to face him. He stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and slowly bowed to her, his head tilted slightly in contempt. Rochefort.

CHAPTER EIGHT

She waited in the alley behind The Wren, pressed against the wall so she was virtually unseen. At 8 o'clock, she was alerted to footsteps and there they were; Aramis and D'Artagnan, on their mission to right the perceived wrong. How little they knew, she thought. They stopped and looked around expectantly. Sighing, she put an end to their expectations, and stepped out of the shadows, the chain and locket wrapped around her hand.

"Why?" asked D'Artagnan.

"It is mine," she said simply.

So, why hurt him?" Aramis continued.

"It was a simple mission ...take a locket from a drunken man," she said carelessly, waving her hand.

"Apparently, the Red Guards I hired were a little too forceful. They didn't expect him to fight back in his drunken state."

She shrugged, "It appears he was sober."

D'Artagnan's shoulders slumped at her words. Milady tilted her head and peered closely at him.

"You thought he was drunk..."

She sighed. "He fought them. It seems that he is not so willing to forget me!"

"He wants to forget you with all his heart!" d'Artagnan snarled.

"He's just not ready to forget what you once had," said Aramis softly.

Her eyes flashed shock. Again, she quickly recovered.

"It's important to him," d'Artagnan continued quietly. "Why would you want it back – I'm sure the King has given you more expensive trinkets?"

Suddenly, she rounded on him, her eyes blazing,

"MAYBE I'M NOT READY TO FORGET EITHER!" she shouted.

They had never heard her raise her voice before.

Her glare was pure Athos.

It was Aramis who broke it, looking down at his feet. When he looked up, she was holding out the chain. He reached out his hand, and she dropped it into his open palm. He looked down at it.

"You'll have to get the chain repaired," she said casually, composed now.

"They tore it from his neck."

They both gaped at her.

"I WILL have my revenge..." she said suddenly, touching the ribbon around her throat once more.

"I will bide my time," she smiled. She raised her hood, and, turning on her heel, she walked away.

The air was heavy with emotion – cloying anger, loneliness, and frustration...Aramis reached out and squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder. They both looked at each other in shock.

"Mother of God ..." whispered Aramis. "If that is a small part of the intensity Athos feels when she is around, I have no idea how he functions..."

Both d'Artagnan and Aramis were emotionally drained after their encounter with Milady, and headed back to Porthos at the Garrison with heavy hearts. The intensity of Milady's presence was hard to shake off.

"You know," Porthos said, after they had told him what had happened, "If she wasn't a cold blooded murderess, and a scheming, nasty piece of work – I think they make a good couple."

They were glad of his ability to lighten the mood.

"I cannot shake off that feeling though..." d'Artagnan said.

"What feelin'?" Porthos said, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

"Heartache," said d'Artagnan, continuing his thought. ..

"It washes over both of them."

oOo

After Aramis and d'Artagnan had eaten, they went along to Athos' room, lit now by candles. It was quiet and peaceful. Their spirits rose somewhat - there was their injured brother being cared for by Porthos, who was bent low whispering to him and holding his hand.

"How is he?" asked Aramis, taking off his hat and throwing it on the table.

"Mad as 'ell, in a lot of pain," said Porthos. "Had trouble keeping him still, but he's sleepin' now."

Aramis quickly checked his wounds and was concerned to see the beginnings of inflammation.

"We have to keep him still," said Aramis, shaking his head.

"Only way we'll do that is tie 'im to the bed!"

They looked at each other.

"No, it ain't right."

"I know!" snapped Aramis, "but you've seen him, he'll tear his stitches, it could kill him."

Aramis knew from unhappy experience that even a wound that looked on the way to healing could still kill a man with unholy speed. Undue or excessive movement would speed that outcome considerably.

So Porthos went off to find some rope.

When Porthos came back, he did not bring rope. He had thought about it, and could not do it. Instead, he had taken a couple of sheets from the laundry and torn them into wide strips. Back in the room, he explained his reasoning to Aramis, and together, they wound a length of sheet over Athos' hips and under the bed frame, tying it off at the side. Another strip went under his arms, across his chest. This left his mid section clear so that Aramis could keep his wound clean, and his arms free as well, so that he would feel much less restricted.

It did mean, more to the point that Athos would not be able to sit up or turn over, thereby not aggravating the wound. They knew Athos would not be pleased.

When he woke and realised what they had done,

"Untie me." he whispered.

"Untie me." a few minutes later.

D'Artagnan sat on the edge of the bed, and took his hand.

"We can't, Athos. It's too dangerous."

Athos turned a cool, penetrating gaze to D'Artagnan.

"You thought I was drunk..." he said quietly, weakly shaking off the young man's hand.

D'Artagnan gasped. He could not speak. He stood and walked to the end of the room and put both hands on the wall, trying, trying hard to breath. Would Athos ever forgive him?

oOo

"Aramis?" he whispered, turning his head, searching for his friend.

"I'm here, Mon Ami," smiling down at him.

"Can I sit up?" his hand unconsciously going to his throat, the chain no longer there.

"Are you in pain?" Aramis asked, putting his hand on Athos's cheek.

"Yes" he whispered.

"Untie me."

"Soon."

 **Later...**

He was angry now.

"He's angry now," said Porthos.

"Untie me, DAMMIT!" he groaned.

Aramis actually took a step back, before realising he wasn't in any danger.

"It's for your own safety Athos. You have to lay still. It won't be much longer."

"This is not fair," he said, childlike, but he did not complain further.

Porthos just winked at him and chuckled.

It was all very well though tying his patient to his bed, but looking after him in that state was another matter. Although Aramis wanted his friend to lie still in order to give his wound time to heal, he was conscious of the necessity of attending to his other needs. Physical needs notwithstanding, merely changing the bed linen became a military operation, requiring d'Artagnan to untie the bindings, Aramis himself to gently raise the patient and Porthos to bear his weight, once standing. It was fine when everyone was off duty at the same time, and could all do their part. Less so when they weren't.

The first time did not go according to plan. Athos, still weak from loss of blood, and in considerable pain, found himself staring into Porto's chest as the big man held him under each arm. As Athos raised his head to see who was holding him in this manner, the room started to spin, and he grunted in submission.

"Don't you be sick on me!" growled Porthos, tightening his grip. In reply, Athos went limp, succumbing to the ever increasing spin of the room.

"I got ya," Porthos whispered to his now unconscious brother.

After that, they streamlined their ministrations and became quite adept in caring for their non-ambulant friend.

Athos clearly hated being so dependant, but gritted his teeth through every humiliation.

"I will escape when you least expect it" he said, languidly one day, after one of their out of bed sessions.

"Wanna bet?" Porthos laughed.

In reply, Athos tilted his head and gave Porthos a disdainful look.

"You're gettin' better," Porthos smiled.

They left him muttering what sounded like some of his best aristocratic profanities.

"Where are you going?!" he shouted after them.

"Lunch," D'artagnan said. "We'll bring you some back."

Walking down the stairs, Porthos was thoughtful.

"He is a Master Strategist though; he'll find some way of gettin' out."

"Well, in that case," said Aramis, "We'll use chains next time."

They clapped each other on the back and carried on down the stairs.

Inside his room, Athos allowed himself a small smile, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him once more.

oOo

He opened his eyes suddenly into semi darkness. All he could see was the ceiling above him, the pattern of the nearby candle playing across it. He remembered he could not move much, but right now he didn't have the strength anyway. He frowned. Someone was in the room with him.

"Who's there?" he said, his voice a mere croak. No answer came.

"Aramis? Is that you?"

The silence was painful. He did not have the reserves to deal with this. His heart started to thump in his chest involuntarily. He could feel adrenaline begin to course through his veins.

"No, not Aramis." A pause then, and a quiet sigh. He thought he caught a familiar fragrance, but he was not sure. His senses were dulled.

"Am I dreaming?" he whispered.

"Not dreaming. Delirious perhaps," she said, planting the seed.

Then, the swish of a skirt brushing the floor, followed by the soft click of the door latch. He was aware of faint light seeping into the room as the door opened, but it faded into shadow as the door then closed. He didn't know how long he lay, holding his breath until his heartbeat slowed.

He flinched when the door cracked open what must have been maybe an hour later, flooding the room with dawn light.

"Morning, my friend, behavin' yourself?"

Porthos.

He knew it was Porthos, but he had a sense of being at the bottom of a very deep well, the light at the top so far away, beyond reach. He slipped gratefully back into oblivion, his mind filled with a sunlit meadow and two people laughing as they chased one another.

CHAPTER NINE

"Where's Porthos?" asked d'Artagnan, the following afternoon, sitting down at their table in the yard.

"Don't know," replied Aramis, "He said he had an errand to run."

Both looked at each other. d'Artagnan shrugged and headed off to the stables. "Well, we'll find out soon enough I suppose," he called as he picked up the shovel. Mucking out was not one of his favourite things, but he needed to keep his mind occupied and it was as good as anything. Aramis was busy cleaning his pistols for the second time that morning.

Sometime later, Porthos returned with a grin on his face.

"What have you been up to my friend?" enquired Aramis, squinting up at him.

In reply, Porthos held up his hand, and there, wrapped around his fingers, dangled Athos's chain, repaired, and good as new.

"You had it fixed!" cried d'Artagnan, taking it off him to inspect.

"Yep," replied Porthos, "and the Captain has arranged to have Athos's room cleaned up, so it will be good as new for him to return to."

They all exchanged a look, mention of the room bringing back those awful first few hours, trampling in their brother's blood on the floor, desperately dragging his bloodied sheets off the bed and throwing the ruined pillow across the room.

d'Artagnan took the locket and headed off to the Infirmary. Athos was still sleeping, so he gently lifted his limp hand, and wrapped the chain carefully around his fingers.

"He was just trying to hang onto a piece of happiness" he said to himself, with tears shining in his eyes.

He leant forward and lightly kissed his Brother on his forehead. They would sit with him until he awoke again. They understood a little more now about his demons.

oOo

As dawn filtered into the Infirmary, Aramis was the first to wake. He started clearing up glasses and plates from the table. The noise woke Porthos and d'Artagnan, who stretched and, looking across the room towards Athos, saw those familiar green eyes looking at them. "You're back", Aramis whispered.

Athos's eyes filled with tears as he held up his hand with the locket dangling from his fingers.

"How?" he said softly.

"We tracked the person who took it and "persuaded" them to give it back" d'Artagnan said, smiling. He was very careful not to say "her". Athos didn't need to know, not just yet anyway. She may turn up again and remind him of it, but for now, they wanted him to have some peace.

"I doubt it was as simple as that."

"They were Red Guards," Aramis told him.

"Were they?" he said quietly, almost with no interest. "They didn't fight like Red Guards."

"Well, they did Brother," said Aramis. "They fought dirty."

d'Artagnan moved to sit next to the bed and took Athos's hand.

"I was not drunk" Athos said quietly, looking him in the eyes.

"I know," said d'Artagnan and lowered his forehead to rest against his mentor's hand.

"I can never make up for what I did Athos. I just wanted so much for you to stop drinking; I didn't see that you had! I didn't LOOK at you. I didn't look...

"You retrieved my locket, even though you did not know its significance."

"We knew it was special to you" said d'Artagnan, "as you are to us," he added, shyly.

d'Artagnan felt Athos gently squeeze his hand.

"Welcome back, Brother," smiled Aramis, realising that Athos had opened the door, and they were forgiven.

"I can forgive you for betting on me," he said, later, looking sternly at Porthos and Aramis, standing before him like two small children, such was the power of that voice and that stare.

"I suppose I have been fair game in the past," he continued.

"Quite lucrative," muttered Porthos, drawing a smirk from Aramis and a raised eyebrow from Athos, shutting him up quickly.

oOo

After what seemed like an eternity to him, Aramis declared him fit, at least to sit up, although they all took great delight in keeping him waiting,

"Gentlemen, you have me at a disadvantage. Make haste, please."

With great ceremony, Aramis cut through the bindings, first at his hips and then under his arms. Porthos leant over and presented his arm to Athos, who took hold and, stifling a groan, gently raised himself. d'Artagnan busied himself putting extra pillows behind him. Athos, pale and exhausted by that brief exertion, took a few deep breaths.

"Lie still now," said Aramis. "You will probably feel light headed for a while."

Eventually, Athos said, "I cannot believe I let you do that...but I understand your motives. I doubt I would have survived without your help. I owe you all my life, Gentlemen. Thank you."

d'Artagnan held out his hand, palm down; Porthos covered it with his own, followed by Aramis. Athos looked at the three hands before him, and reached out to place his hand on the top.

"All for One," he said, quietly.

"And One for All," they replied.

CHAPTER TEN

Milady stood at her window in the Palace, lost in her thoughts, the ornate gardens below unseen. Why had she wanted it back? Because, she realised, she was equally tied to him through that small symbol, that tiny flower. Her happiest times, snatched away as quickly for her as for him. Her life tossed into the unknown, just as his had been. She did not, of course, acknowledge her part in her own downfall. He had his Brotherhood now, she thought. She had yet to find an anchor, yet to allow others into her life or to give herself to other people, as he had started to do.

But she knew that Athos loved her still. She would allow him to wear her locket. However, it was humiliating having to give it back to the two Musketeers, under threat of exposure.

And so, as had happened so many times in the past five years, she felt the familiar stirring in her – she was compelled to act in this way, she knew now. Revenge. Pure simple revenge. Against anyone who wronged her. And plenty who didn't. Athos drank to sink into oblivion. She took her revenge. Neither felt better afterwards but it seemed that nothing would alter their path.

Much later, she returned to the alley behind The Wren. Patience. She was good at waiting, she thought. She knew they would come again to this place. She wanted her vengeance. Eventually, around midnight, the back door of the Inn crashed open, light flooding into the alley. The two of them came out, turning in the direction of the Garrison. Quietly, she withdrew a small lethal stiletto blade from her sleeve, and a longer blade from her belt. As they passed her, she dropped quietly behind them, matching their steps. The moon slid behind dark clouds, the alley shrouded in shadows. They were totally unaware of her presence. They were laughing as she slipped silently behind them. Holding her breath, she plunged the stiletto into the neck of the younger one, whilst almost at the same time, thrusting the longer blade between the ribs of his friend. They dropped to the ground without a sound. She breathed out now, and bent to extract her blades, checking they were dead, knowing, of course, that they were.

Her eyes flickered left and right, and she once more melted away, satisfied with her nights work. She had her revenge.

The two Red Guards were dead.

oOo

Athos sat in the sun, slightly apart from his brothers, listening to their easy banter. His hand reached to his throat and he ran his fingers over the chain. Some memories can rip your heart out of your chest, he reflected, taking your breath away, leaving you desolate and bereft. But some memories can warm and swell your heart, can caress and soothe, and can cast you gently into morning, when the night has been unkind. Such memories can make a bruised heart soar. The small blue flower, that once brought him both sweet and bitter memories in equal proportions, this morning took on much more significance for him. How could he ever forget these halcyon days of Brotherhood, love, and honour? As he held the small locket in his fingers, he raised his head and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. And he smiled.

 **Later...**

In the early light of day, Rochefort stood in an alley, his hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowed, staring down at the bodies of two of his Red Guards. Both professionally stabbed to death. One of whom, he had seen before.

 _End._


End file.
